GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


•J53V 


1 


PERSONAL     RECOLLECTIONS 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER 

BY 

MARY   B.   CLAFLIN 


NEW  YORK:  46  EAST  i4TH  STREET 
THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

BOSTON:   100  PURCHASE  STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
BY  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


Typography  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


MY  reverent  sense  of  the  power  and 
purity  and  beauty  of  Mr.  Whittier's  life, 
and  of  his  wide  and  salutary  influence, 
has  led  me  to  a  diffident  attempt  to  give 
to  those  who  have  not  had  the  privilege 
of  his  intimate  acquaintance,  a  glimpse 
of  him  as  I  knew  him. 

In  the  poem,  "The  Morning  Star," 
published  here  for  the  first  time,  Miss 
Edna  Dean  Proctor  has  embodied  his 
almost  life -long  plaint  of  sleepless 
nights,  and  the  gladness  with  which  he 

hailed  the  dawn. 

M.  B.  C. 

MAY,  1893. 


THE   MORNING   STAR. 

(JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  died  at  dawn,  Sept.  7,  1892.) 

"  How  long  and  weary  are  the  nights,"  he 

said, 
"When    thought    and    memory   wake,   and 

sleep  has  fled ; 
When  phantoms  from  the  past  the  chamber 

fill, 

And  tones,  long  silent,  all  my  pulses  thrill ; 
While,  sharp  as  doom,   or   faint   in   distant 

towers, 
Knell  answering  knell,  the  chimes  repeat  the 

hours, 
And  wandering  wind  and  waning  moon  have 

lent 
Their   sighs    and    shadows    to    the    heart's 

lament. 

Then,  from  my  pillow  looking  east,  I  wait 
5 


6  THE  MORNING   STAR. 

The  dawn ;    and   life   and    joy  come    back, 

elate, 

When,  fair  above  the  seaward  hill  afar, 
Flames  the   lone  splendor   of  the   morning 

star." 

O  Vanished  One  !  O  loving,  glowing  heart ! 
When  the  last  evening  darkened  round  thy 

room, 

Thou  didst  not  with  the  setting  moon  de 
part ; 
Nor  take  thy  way  in  midnight's  hush  and 

gloom ; 

Nor  let  the  wandering  wind  thy  comrade  be, 
Outsailing  on  the  dim,  unsounded  sea  — 
The  silent  sea  where  falls  the  muffled  oar, 
And  they  who   cross   the   strand  return  no 

more ; 

But  thou  didst  wait,  celestial  deeps  to  try, 
Till  dawn's  first  rose  had  flushed  the  paling 

sky, 

And  pass,  serene,  to  life  and  joy  afar, 
Companioned    by   the    bright   and    morning 

star  ! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR, 


PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER 


,^: 

PERSONAL    RECOLLECTIONS 

OF 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

EMERSON  felicitously  says,  "  the  orna 
ment  of  a  house  is  the  friends  who  fre 
quent  it." 

The  house  where  Mr.  Whittier  was  a 
guest  was  ornamented  indeed ;  for  a  more 
genial,  suggestive,  inspiring  friend,  or 
one  with  a  more  distinct  personality,  has 
rarely  given  the  blessing  and  benediction 
of  his  presence  to  any  home,  and  the 
family  fortunate  enough  to  have  him  with 
them  at  the  fireside,  counted  themselves 
especially  favored  and  enriched.  He  was 
unique  in  his  absolute  simplicity  and 
7 


8        PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

truthfulness  —  the  simplicity  and  truth 
fulness  of  clear  conviction  and  sturdy 
strength,  and  of  a  nature  that  in  its  ten 
derness  and  justice  seemed  to  reflect  the 
very  heart  of  God. 

Mr.  Whittier  was  responsive  to  every 
appeal,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  as  his 
hearty  laugh,  his  "  smartly  smitten 
knee,"  at  some  amusing  story,  or  his 
burst  of  righteous  indignation,  at  a  tale 
of  injustice  and  wrong,  plainly  showed. 
As  intense  in  nature,  as  he  was  saga 
cious,  though  ordinarily  shy  and  cau 
tious  and  reserved,  he  could,  under 
favorable  conditions,  blossom  into  rare 
graciousness  and  sympathy  of  speech 
and  manner.  Those  who  have  sat  with 
him  of  an  evening,  in  a  quiet  firelit 
room,  will  never  forget  his  charming  vi 
vacity  and  pleasant  confidences,  alternat 
ing  with  dreamy  silence  and  repose. 

He  never  led,  but  always  waited  for 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  9 

some  one  to  begin  the  conversation,  yet 
once  launched  upon  some  topic  that  in 
terested  him,  he  would  talk  for  an  hour 
with  an  enthusiasm  and  spontaneity  and 
sprightliness  that  would  surprise  one 
who  had  only  seen  him  in  his  silent 
moods.  But  his  feelings  were  so  strong 
upon  the  subjects  which  had  engrossed 
his  attention,  that  an  hour's  conversa 
tion  would  utterly  exhaust  him.  One 
day  after  talking  with  a  friend  of  whom 
he  was  fond,  and  into  whose  morbid 
feelings  he  had  entered  deeply,  he  ex 
claimed  after  she  had  left  —  "  There  ! 
I  will  not  go  down  into  the  depths  with 

M again  ;  it  makes  my  head  spin. 

The  next  time  she  comes  I'll  talk  about 
the  fashions." 

V  Born  on  a  hilly,  rocky  New  England 
farm,  where  the  struggle  for  daily 
bread  was  hard,  and  where  there  was 
little  to  cultivate  the  imagination  or  en- 


10      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

courage  his  attempts  at  poetic  flights, 
he  still  indulged  his  dreams,  and  was 
often  so  absorbed  in  his  fancies,  that  he 
would  stop  in  the  furrow  and  lean  upon 
his  hoe,  forgetful  of  all  around  him  until 
his  father,  "a  prompt,  decisive  man," 
would  call  out  "  That's  enough  for  stand, 
now,  John."  During  all  this  time,  Na 
ture,  the  old  nurse,  was  storing  his  mind 
with  a  wealth  of  material,  from  which  he 
has  since  drawn  with  lavish  hand,  that 
he  might  bestow  it  upon  those  whose 
souls  are,  perhaps,  less  keen  to  note  her 
wonderful  harmonies. 

Meanwhile  this  farm  life  seemed  dull 
to  the  boy,  "  possessed  of  the  sore  dis 
quiet  of  a  restless  brain,"  and  he  began 
early  to  write  the  "rhymes"  (he  always 
spoke  of  his  poems  as  "my  rhymes") 
which  have  since  given  so  much  pleas 
ure  to  the  world.  But  when  he  es 
poused  the  cause  of  human  freedom- 


JOHN  G.    WHIT  TIER.  11 

and  entered  the  despised  ranks  of  the 
Abolitionists,  it  was  not  easy  to  find  a 
publisher  for  his  poems.  He  said  to  a 
young  friend,  who  was  about  publishing 
his  first  book,  under  the  happiest  au 
spices,  "  Thee  is  fortunate  to  find  a  pub 
lisher  so  soon.  I  could  find  no  one  to 
publish  my  first  book,  and,  for  that  mat 
ter,  I  had  to  wait  many  years." 

Our  poet  early  learned,  in  a  severe 
school,  what  self-sacrifice  meant  —  how 
great  a  sacrifice  let  any  one  with  "  the 
scholar's  heart  aflame,"  imagine.  He 
was  an  active  partaker  in  the  struggles 
of  his  country ;  with  him  duty  was  com 
manding,  and  he  always  kept  before 
him  and  acted  upon  the  idea  that 

"  Beyond  the  poefs  sweet  dream  lives 
The  eternal  epic  of  the  man." 

V    When    he  was    about    twenty-one   he 
made  his  first  visit  to  Boston  which  was 


12      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

an  occasion  of  sufficient  importance  for 
him  to  make  a  change  in  his  dress. 
The  buttons  on  his  coat,  before  this  of 
home  manufacture,  were  now  made  of 
"  lasting,"  bought  from  the  village  store. 
With  his  new  attire  he  arrived  in  the 
city,  where  he  describes  himself,  with 
great  amusement,  watching  the  crowds 
as  they  passed  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  wondering  if  any  one  noticed  his 
"  boughten  buttons.'* 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  became  the 
owner  and  purchaser  of  a  book  of  his 
own  selection,  a  copy  of  Shakespeare, 
which  he  says  he  carried  home  under 
his  arm  with  a  consciousness  of  riches 
untold,  although  he  was  quite  ignorant 
of  the  nature  of  his  treasure.  Previous 
to  this  a  stray  copy  of  Burns  had  taught 
him  to  detect  "  the  beautiful  in  the  com 
mon,"  and  made  him  feel  it  possible  to 
write  the  songs  that  have  since  shown 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  13 

"  through  all  familiar  things,  the  ro 
mance  underlying."  One  of  his  earliest 
publications  was  "  Legends  of  New  Eng 
land,"  legends  which  he  tells  us  his 
mother  taught  her  children, — 

"  While  she  turned  her  wheel, 
Or  run  the  new  knit  stocking  heel, 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
The  common  imrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways, 
The  story  of  her  early  days." 

Before  this  he  had  somewhere  found 
a  volume  of  Scott's  "  Pirate,"  and  he 
and  his  sister  had  enjoyed  the  stolen 
luxury  of  reading  it  late  at  night,  until 
they  had  exhausted  the  tallow  dip,  and 
at  a  critical  point  in  the  story  had  to 
retire  ignominiously  in  the  dark.  Nov 
els  were  under  a  ban  in  the  Quaker 
household,  hence  the  necessity  for 
secrecy.  The  sister,  whom  he  thus 


14      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

mentions,  was  his  constant  companion. 
To  him  her  shy,  beautiful  soul  opened 
like  a  flower  in  the  warmth  of  social 
communion.  He  says  of  her  she  — 

v        "  held  herself  apart 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 
Against  the  household  bosom  lean." 


'  Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content." 


"  I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar 
Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And  white  against  the  evening  star 
The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand." 

In  "The  Tent  on  the  Beach"  we  find 
a  portrait  of  himself  at  this  era  of  his 
life  drawn  by  his  own  modest  hand :  — 


JOHN  G.    IVHITTIER.  15 

"  And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill ; 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough, 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to 
spring  and  grow." 

Mr.  Whittier's  attachment  to  his  own 
sect — "Our  Folks,"  as  he  always  called 
the  Friends  —  was  strong,  and  he  disap 
proved  of  any  change  in  their  habits  or 
in  their  methods  of  worship. 

When  asked  once  why  the  Quakers 
so  perverted  the  English  grammar,  his 
reply  was  :  "  It  has  been  the  manner  of 
speech  of  my  people  for  two  hundred 
years  ;  it  was  my  mother's  language,  and 
it  is  good  enough  for  me ;  I  shall  not 
change  my  grammar."  Coming  from  a 
Quaker  meeting  one  day  in  a  state  of 
great  indignation,  he  said,  "  Our  folks 


16      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

have  got  to  talking  t'  much ;  they  even 
want  a  glass  of  water  on  the  table,  and 
some  of  them  want  singing  in  the  meet 
ings.  I  tell  them  if  they  want  singing, 
they  have  got  to  get  the  world's  folks  to 
do  it  for  them,  for  two  hundred  years 
of  silence  have  taken  all  the  sing  out  of 
our  people." 

He  loved  a  simple  song  sung  by  a 
friend,  and  when  he  was  asked,  "  Do 
you  like  that,  Mr.  Whittier?"  he  was 
careful  how  he  expressed  much  interest, 
because  that  would  not  be  in  accordance 
with  Quaker  notions.  His  reply  usually 
was,  "Thy  voice  is  very  sweet.'*  I 
think  he  often  felt  like  the  children  in 
the  family  of  an  English  Quaker  where 
Mr.  Gough  was  visiting.  One  day 
Mr.  Gough  sang  a  comic  song,  in  his 
inimitable  manner,  which  greatly  de 
lighted  the  children.  The  next  day, 
wishing  to  have  a  repetition  of  the  fun, 


JOHN  G.   WHIT  TIER.  17 

they  said,  "John  Gough,  will  thee  tell 
us  that  same  story  thee  told  us  yester 
day,  in  the  same  tone  of  voice?"  Mr. 
Whittier  often  wanted  the  little  song 
told  "  in  the  same  tone  of  voice,"  when 
some  sweet  young  girl  had  sung  to  him 
a  Scotch  ballad.  He  was  very  fond  of 
Scotch  stories,  whether  told  in  song  or 
on  the  printed  page. 

Mr.  Whittier  was  tall  and  erect  to  the 
last,  in  spite  of  his  eighty-four  years. 
His  hair  was  frosted,  his  eyes  were  dark 
and  piercing,  and  quick  to  note  every 
thing  that  passed  before  them.  His 
dress  was  black,  and  made  after  the  most 
approved  fashion  of  the  Quakers.  His 
coat  was  a  perfect  fit,  and  his  outside 
garment,  with  its  fine  fur  collar,  was 
very  becoming,  which  fact  his  friends 
sometimes  suspected  he  understood  as 
well  as  they. 


18      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

He  was  sensitive  to  every  change  of 
temperature,  and  seemed  to  be  con 
stantly  longing  for  the  summer  air,  the 
blooming  flowers,  and  the  singing  birds. 
He  suffered  in  the  cold,  bleak  winds  of 
New  England,  and  often  said,  "  It  must 
be  confessed  we  have  a  hard  climate. 
I  always  wish  the  Pilgrims  had  drifted 
down  to  Virginia/'  But  his  love  for 
Massachusetts  and  for  Essex  County 
was  greater  than  his  dislike  of  the  long 
winters  and  the  rough  gales.  The  sun 
niest  climes  and  the  richest  landscapes 
could  not  win  him  from  his  loyalty  to 
his  home,  for  he  found  every  charm  of 
beauty  and,  grandeur  in  its  rugged 
scenes.  The  Merrimac  was  more  to  him 
than  the  Rhine,  and  Chocorua  and 
Mount  Washington  more  than  the  splen 
dors  of  the  Jungfrau  and  the  Matter- 
horn.  Not  the  Bay  of  Naples  nor  the 
Bosphorus  could  rival  in  his  affections 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  19 

the  North  Shore,  and  the  expanse  of 
foam-crested  waters  about  the  Isles  of 
Shoals.  A  friend  whom  he  greatly 
admired,  in  answering  some  inquiries  of 
his  as  to  her  birthplace  in  another  State, 
added,  "  but  my  ancestors  lived  in  Man- 
chester-by-the-Sea."  —  "  Oh,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "  I  knew  thee  was  from  Essex 
County." 

These  extracts  from  "  The  Merri- 
mac,"  "The  Hill-top  "  and  " The  Wreck 
of  Rivermouth,"  show  his  enthusiastic 
love  for  the  wind-swept  hills  and  coasts 
of  his  own  land  :  — 

"  O  child  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose 

springs 
Gush    forth   in   the    shade    of   the    cliff-eagle's 

wings, 
Down  whose  slopes   to  the  lowlands   thy  wild 

waters  shine, 
Leaping   gray  walls   of  rock,  flashing    through 

the  dwarf  pine." 


20      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

"  I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

***** 
"  There  towered  Chocorua's  peak ;  and  west, 

Moosehilleck's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone ! 

***** 

"  So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 
In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer  day, 

And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 
In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told ; 
And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 


JOHN  G.    WHIT  TIER.  21 

"  And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed  once  more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow ; 
In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats  off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow. 
The  beacon  glimmered  from  Portsmouth  bar, 
The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star ; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day!" 

Mr.  Whittier  was  a  many-sided  man 
and  could  adapt  himself  to  any  condi 
tion  of  mind.  He  had  great  warmth  of 
affection  for  his  friends ;  tenderness  to 
the  erring,  and  capacity  for  suffering 
with  others,  were  marked  traits  in  his 
character,  —  but  he  had  always  faith  in 
ultimate  good  for  all.  He  said,  "  Surely 
God  would  not  permit  his  children  to 
suffer  if  it  were  not  to  work  out  for 
them  the  highest  good.  For  God  never 
does,  nor  suffers  to  be  done,  but  that 
wrhich  we  would  do  if  we  could  see 
the  end  of  all  events  as  well  as  He. 


22      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

The  little  circumstance  of  death  will 
make  no  difference  with  me  :  I  shall 
have  the  same  friends  in  that  other 
world  that  I  have  here  ;  the  same 
loves  and  aspirations  and  occupations. 
If  it  were  not  so,  I  should  not  be  my 
self,  and  surely  I  shall  not  lose  my 
identity.  God's  love  is  so  infinitely 
greater  than  mine  that  I  cannot  fear 
for  his  children,  and  when  I  long  to  help 
some  poor,  suffering,  erring  fellow-crea 
ture,  I  am  consoled  with  the  thought 
that  his  great  heart  of  love  is  more 
moved  than  mine  can  be,  and  so  I  rest  in 
peace."  This  is  in  keeping  with  his  beau 
tiful  lines  in  "The  Eternal  Goodness." 

"  I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care." 

In  the  companionship  of  his  friends 
the  poet  found  the  keenest  pleasure  of 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  23 

his  lonely  life.  Mr.  Emerson,  Mr. 
Sumner,  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps, 
Lydia  Maria  Child,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James 
T.  Fields, —  Mrs.  Fields  he  character 
ized  as  "a  sweet  flower  of  Christian 
womanhood,"  —  were  among  his  most 
cherished  friends. 

With  Mr.  Emerson  he  discussed  the 
great  problems  of  human  needs,  and 
the  great  mysteries  of  eternity. 

With  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  his 
favorite  theme  was  the  occupations  of 
heaven.  They  would  sit  —  their  two 
heads  together  —  over  the  dying  em 
bers,  at  the  twilight  hour,  and  talk  of 
what  they  should  require  to  satisfy 
their  souls  in  heaven.  He  said  to  her 
one  day,  "  Elizabeth,  thee  would  not  be 
happy  in  heaven  unless  thee  could  go 
missionary  to  the  other  place,  now  and 
then." 


24      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

With  Mrs.  Stowe  he  would  sit  till 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and  till 
the  lights  burned  blue,  to  talk  about 
psychical  mysteries,  and  relate  stories 
of  ghosts  and  spirit  rappings  and  mani 
festations.  They  "  wooed  the  courteous 
ghosts"  together;  but  he  said,  "Much 
as  I  have  wooed  them,  they  never  ap 
pear  to  me.  Mrs.  Stowe  is  more  fortu 
nate  —  the  spirits  sometimes  come  at 
her  bidding,  but  never  at  mine  —  and 
what  wonder  ?  It  would  be  a  foolish 
spirit  that  did  not  prefer  her  company 
to  that  of  an  old  man  like  me."  They 
would  repeat  the  most  marvellous  stories 
of  ghostly  improbabilities,  apparently, 
for  the  time  being,  believing  every 
word. 

With  Miss  Proctor  he  talked  of 
poetry,  and  especially  of  Oriental  poetry 
and  religion,  which  had  a  wonderful 
fascination  for  him;  of -Egypt  and  the 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  25 

East ;  of  the  Mohammedans  and  their 
worship  ;  and  of  the  imposing  ceremo 
nies  of  the  Greek  Church  in  Russia. 
Once,  when  he  expressed  his  delight  at 
some  description  she  had  given  him  of 
Moscow,  she  said,  "  You  should  go  there 
yourself,  Mr.  Whittier."  —  "  Oh,  no," 
he  answered;  " there's  no  need  of  that. 
I  can  see  it  all,  when  thee  tells  it." 

Mr.  Whittier  had  great  pleasure  in 
conversing  with  Mr.  Emerson ;  and  he 
often  repeated  the  conversations  they 
had  in  their  brief  and  infrequent  visits 
together.  In  driving,  one  day,  Mr. 
Emerson  pointed  out  a  small,  unpainted 
house  by  the  roadside,  and  said,  "  There 
lives  an  old  Calvinist  in  that  house, 
and  she  says  she  prays  for  me  every 
day.  I  am  glad  she  does.  I  pray  for 
myself." 

"  Does  thee  ? "  said  Mr.  Whittier. 
"  What  does  thee  pray  for,  friend  Emer 
son  ? " 


26      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Emerson,  "when 
I  first  open  my  eyes  upon  the  morning 
meadows,  and  look  out  upon  the  beau 
tiful  world,  I  thank  God  that  I  am  alive, 
and  that  I  live  so  near  Boston." 

In  one  of  their  conversations,  Mr. 
Emerson  remarked  that  the  world  had 
not  yet  seen  the  highest  development 
of  manhood. 

"Does  thee  think  so?"  said  Mr.  Whit- 
tier.  "  I  suppose  thee  would  admit  that 
Jesus  Christ  is  the  highest  development 
our  world  has  seen?" 

"Yes,  yes;  but  not  the  highest  it  will 
see." 

"  Does  thee  think  the  world  has  yet 
reached  the  ideals  the  Christ  has  set  for 
mankind  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Emerson ;  "  I 
think  not." 

"Then  is  it  not  the  part  of  wisdom 
to  be  content  with  what  has  been  given 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  27 

us,  till  we  have  lived  up  to  that  ideal  ? 

iAnd  when  we  need  something  higher, 
Infinite  Wisdom  will  supply  our  needs." 

He  told  the  story  of  a  dear  aunt,  — 

"  The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate," 

whose  experience,  he  said,  brought  him 
nearer  to  a  ghost  than  anything  that 
ever  happened  to  him.  This  aunt  was 
one  of  the  family  described  in  "  Snow 
Bound,"  — 

"  Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less, 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness." 

She  was  betrothed  to  a  young  man 
in  the  village,  who  was  called  away  to 
some  remote  place  in  the  West.  She 
waited  faithfully  for  his  return,  but  he 
did  not  come.  One  night  she  was 
sitting  alone  over  the  dying  embers  of 
the  kitchen  fire,  while  the  full  moon 


28      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

shone  outside  upon  the  fields  of  snow. 
As  she  looked  from  the  window,  she 
saw  approaching,  on  a  white  steed,  a 
horseman.  She  recognized  her  lover, 
and  ran  to  the  door  to  meet  him,  with 
outstretched  arms,  and  all  the  ardor  of 
love's  young  dream,  and  lo !  horse  and 
rider  had  vanished. 

Days  afterward,  she  learned  that  her 
lover  had  died  at  that  very  hour,  "  and 
for  all  the  years  thereafter  '  of  toil  and 
soil  and  care/  — 

"  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood ; 
*  *  *  *  * 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart." 

Mr.  Whittier  believed  in  following 
the  inner  light,  and  when  he  thought 
he  was  directed  by  that  inner  light,  no 
power  on  earth  could  influence  him  to 
turn  aside.  If  he  decided  to  move  at  a 


JOHN  G.   WHITTTER.  29 

certain  moment  of  time,  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  change  his  mind ;  no 
storm  was  severe  enough  to  deter  him 
from  going  on  the  train  he  had  set  his 
heart  on.  He  used  to  tell  a  story  of  one 
of  his  friends  as  an  illustration  of  the 
wisdom  of  being  guided  by,  and  yielding 
to,  the  inner  light. 

"  I  have  an  old  friend,  he  said,  who  fol 
lowed  the  leadings  of  the  spirit,  and 
always  made  it  a  point  to  go  to  meeting 
on  First-day.  On  one  First-day  morn 
ing,  he  made  ready  for  meeting,  and  sud 
denly  turning  to  his  wife,  said,  '  I  am  not 
going  to  meeting  this  morning  ;  I  am  go 
ing  to  take  a  walk.'  His  wife  inquired 
where  he  was  going,  and  he  replied  :  '  I 
don't  know  ;  I  am  impelled  to  go,  I  know 
not  where.'  With  his  walking  stick  he 
started  and  went  out  of  the  city  for  a 
mile  or  two,  and  came  to  a  country  house 
that  stood  some  distance  from  the  road. 


30      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

The  gate  stood  open,  and  a  narrow  lane, 
into  which  he  turned,  led  up  to  the  house 
where  something  unusual  seemed  to 
be  going  on.  There  were  several  vehi 
cles  standing  around  the  yard,  and 
groups  of  people  were  gathered  here 
and  there.  When  he  reached  the  house, 
he  found  there  was  a  funeral,  and  he 
entered  with  the  neighbors,  who  were 
there  to  attend  the  service.  He  lis 
tened  to  the  funeral  address  and  to  the 
prayer.  It  was  the  body  of  a  young 
woman  lying  in  the  casket  before  him, 
and  he  arose  and  said,  '  I  have  been  led 
by  the  spirit  to  this  house ;  I  know 
nothing  of  the  circumstances  connected 
with  the  death  of  this  person ;  but  I  am 
impelled  by  the  spirit  to  say  that  she 
has  been  accused  of  something  of  which 
she  is  not  guilty,  and  the  false  accusa 
tion  has  hastened  her  death/ 

"  The  friend  sat  down,  and  a  murmur 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  31 

of  surprise  went  through  the  room. 
The  minister  arose  and  said,  'Are  you 
a  God  or  what  are  you  ? '  The  friend 
replied,  '  I  am  only  a  poor  sinful  man, 
\  but  I  was  led  by  the  inner  light  to 
come  to  this  house,  and  to  say  what  I 
have  said,  and  I  would  ask  the  person 
in  this  room  who  knows  that  the  young 
woman,  now  beyond  the  power  of 
speech,  was  not  guilty  of  what  she 
was  accused,  to  vindicate  her  in  this 
presence.'  After  a  fearful  pause,  a 
woman  stood  up  and  said,  '  I  am  the 
person/  and  while  weeping  hysterically, 
she  confessed  that  she  had  wilfully 
slandered  the  dead  girl.  The  friend 
departed  on  his  homeward  way.  Such," 
said  Mr.  Whittier,  "  was  the  leading  of 
the  inner  light." 

His  modest  reserve  was  unequalled. 
Once,  when  he  was  visiting  us,  I  said  to 


32      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

him  that  we  enjoyed  the  atmosphere  of 
the  house  better  for  having  him  with 
us: — "Even  when  you  are  in  your  own 
room  I  am  happier  for  knowing  that  you 
are  in  the  house." 

The  dear  old  man,  with  a  heart  full 
of  affection,  but  unused  to  much  expres 
sion,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  saicl, 
with  a  good  deal  of  feeling,  "thee  is  a 
sensible  woman  —  do  n't  thee  talk  so 
—  I  can  not  believe  thee." 

He  often  playfully  said,  at  some  femi 
nine  extravagance  of  language,  "Thee 
is  a  little  Oriental  in  thy  speech." 

Always  ready  to  give  sympathetic  ad 
vice,  his  words  of  wisdom,  coming  as 
they  did  from  a  heart  illumined  by  the 
inner  light,  never  failed  to  reach  the 
hearts  of  those  who  needed  help. 

The  morning's  mail  usually  brought 
him  a  great  number  of  letters  (often  as 
many  as  fifty),  and  one  morning,  as  he 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  33 

was  looking  over  the  pile  before  him,  he 
lingered  a  long  time  over  one,  and 
looked  troubled,  as  though  it  contained 
some  sad  news. 

At  length,  handing  it  to  me,  he  said, 
"I  wish  thee  would  read  that  letter," 
and  then  with  his  head  down  cast,  and 
his  deep,  melancholy  eyes  looking,  as  it 
seemed,  into  the  very  depths  of  human 
mysteries,  he  sat  till  I  had  finished  it. 

It  was  written  by  one  whose  life  had 
been  spent  on  a  remote  farm  among  the 
hills  of  New  Hampshire,  away  from  every 
privilege  her  nature  craved  —  a  most 
pathetic  letter,  written,  it  seemed,  out 
of  the  deepest  human  longing  for  sym 
pathy,  for  companionship  and  uplifting. 
The  lonely  woman  wrote,  she  said,  to 
tell  Mr.  Whittier  what  his  poems  had 
been  to  her  during  all  the  years  of  her 
desolate  heart-yearning  for  education, 
for  enlightenment,  and  for  touch  with 


34     PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

the  great  outside  world.  She  added, 
"in  my  darkest  moments  I  have  found 
light  and  comfort  in  your  poems,  which 
I  always  keep  by  my  side,  and  as  I 
never  expect  to  have  the  privilege  of 
looking  into  your  face,  I  feel  that  I 
must  tell  you,  before  I  leave  this  world, 
what  you  have  been  through  your  writ 
ings  to  one,  and  I  have  no  doubt  to 
many  a  longing  heart  and  homesick  soul. 
I  have  never  been  in  a  place  so  dark  and 
hopeless  that  I  could  not  find  light 
and  comfort  and  hope  in  your  poems, 
and  when  I  go  into  my  small  room  and 
close  the  door  upon  the  worries  and 
perplexing  cares  that  constantly  beset 
me,  and  sit  down  by  my  window  that 
looks  out  over  the  hills  which  have  been 
my  only  companions,  I  never  fail  to 
find  in  the  volume  which  is  always  by 
my  side,  some  word  of  peace  and  com 
fort  to  mv  lonsfinof  heart." 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  35 

The  letter  was  such  ,as  to  bring  tears 
from  any  sympathetic  heart,  and  I  re 
marked,  returning  it  to  him,  "  I  would 
rather  have  the  testimony  you  are  con 
stantly  receiving  from  forlorn  and  hun 
gry  souls  —  the  assurance  that  you  are 
helping  God's  neglected  children  — 
than  the  crown  of  any  queen  on  earth." 

With  tearful  eyes  and  choking  voice 
he  replied,  "  Such  letters  greatly  humil 
iate  me.  I  can  sometimes  write  from 
a  high  plane,  but  thee  knows  I  cannot 
live  up  to  it  all  the  time.  I  wish  I 
could  think  I  deserved  the  kind  things 
said^of  me." 

In  the  poem,  "  Brother  of  Mercy," 
Mr.  Whit  tier  gives  not  only  an  exquis 
ite  description  of 

"  Soft  sunset  lights,  through  green  Val  cTArno 
.      sifted,1' 

and  "  the  Brotherhood  of  Mercy  going  on 


36      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

some  errand  good,"  —  a  description  so 
true  that  one  can  scarcely  believe  the 
poet  never  breathed  the  air  of  Italy,  or 
looked  upon  the  terraced  hills  of  La 
Cortesa  —  but  he  expresses  the  deep 
feeling  that  runs  through  all  his  poems 
and  which  is  a  part  of  his  very  life. 
When  he  makes  the  Brother  of  Mercy 
say,  replying  to  the  Monk's  comforting 
assertion  that  he 

"  Shall  sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden  crown," 

"  I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this  gray 
Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and  day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing  naught 
With  these    hard   hands,  that  all  my  life  have 

wrought, 
Not  for  bread  only;  but  for  pity's  sake. 

***** 

"  I  love  my  fellow-men  :  the  worst  I  know 

I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death  change  me  so 


JOHN  G.   WHIT  TIER.  37 

That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer ; 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One's  heart  still  be  human,  and  desires 
Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

His  attitude  was  always  that  of  one 
who  was  favored  beyond  his  deserts. 

In  the  poem  "At  Last,"  about  which 
he  said  to  me,  "  I  do  not  like  to  give 
my  innermost  feelings  to  the  world, 
but  I  wrote  that  poem  because  I  could 
not  help  it,"  the  same  sentiment  is 
\  expressed. 

"  No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold." 

Mr.  Whittier  was  very  reluctant  to 
meet  strangers,  though  every  stranger 
of  note  from  our  own  country,  and  from 
abroad,  considered  his  visit  incomplete 
if  he  did  not  meet  Mr.  Whittier.  Some- 


33      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

times  he  was  so  pursued  by  people  that 
he  was  obliged  to  seek  refuge  in  a  quiet 
country  corner  where  he  could  not  be 
easily  found. 

On  one  occasion  I  invited  some  of  his 
old  acquaintances  to  an  afternoon  tea. 
Knowing  his  aversion  to  meeting  peo 
ple,  and  fearing  he  might  flit,  I  did  not 
speak  to  him  of  my  plan,  but  contrived 
by  some  artifice  to  keep  him  in  the 
house  till  the  guests  should  arrive. 

He  was  so  shy  that  he  could  not  be 
counted  upon,  and  often,  if  he  suspected 
company  had  been  invited  to  meet  him, 
he  would  slip  away.  With  his  keen  per 
ception  and  insight,  he  discovered  that 
something  a  little  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  was  going  on,  and  he  said,  "  What 
is  thee  going  to  do  ?  I  think  thee  is  going 
to  do  something." 

I  replied,  "Why  do  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Whittier?" 


JOHN  G.   VVHITTIER.  39 

"  Oh,  I  know  thee  is  "going  to  have 
some  kind  of  a  fandango." 

When  the  guests  came  he  received 
them  most  cordially,  and  treated  them 
as  though  they  were  conferring  a  great 
favor  upon  him.  After  they  had  left, 
he  said,  with  a  boy's  shyness,  "  I  think 
thee  managed  that  very  well." 

Mr.   Whittier   loved  beautiful  things, 
though  he  was    careful  not  to  express 
much  admiration  of  pictures  and  statu 
ary,  because  that  would  be  inconsistent 
with  his  Quaker  ideas.     He  called  every 
thing  in  the  way  of  statuary,  from  a  tiny  \ 
figure  to  a  colossal  bust,  "a  graven  im 
age."       In    the    house    of    one   of    his 
friends    whom    he     frequently    visited, 
there   was    a   life-size    figure    of    Ruth,/ 
which  turned  on  a  pivot.     He  was  often) 
seen  examining  this  in  private,  and  evi 
dently  admiring  it,  and  he  was  quite  dis 
turbed  one  day  when  the  figure  was  by 


40      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

accident  turned  in  such  a  way  as  to  pre 
sent  the  back,  rather  than  the  face,  to 
those  who  approached  it,  and  he  said  to 
his  hostess,  "  Thy  graven  image  appears 
to  be  backing  folks  t'  much.  I  think 
thee  better  turn  her  round." 

Sleep  was  the  one  blessing  that 
seemed  to  be  denied  him,  and  which  he 
constantly  longed  for.  He  resorted  to 
every  simple  remedy  for  insomnia  — 
but  it  was  all  in  vain  —  his  was  the 
"  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain,"  and 
he  would  often  come  down  in  the  morn 
ing  looking  tired  and  worn  from  his 
long  night  of  wakefulness,  and  say,  "  It 
is  of  no  use ;  the  sleep  of  the  innocent  is 
denied  me.  Perhaps  I  do  not  deserve  it." 

The  pen  portrait  drawn  by  Hayne, 
the  Southern  poet,  gives,  perhaps,  the 
best  idea  of  Mr.  Whittier's  personality  : 

"  So  ^neath  the  Quaker  poefs  tranquil  roof, 
From  all  deep  discords  of  the  world  aloof, 


JOHN  G.    WIIITTIER.  41 

I  sit  once  more  and  measured  converse  hold, 
With  him  whose  nobler  thoughts  are  rhythmic 

gold; 

See  his  deep  brows  half-puckered  in  a  knot, 
O'er  some  hard  problem  of  our  mortal  lot, 
Or  a  dream  soft  as  May  winds  of  the  South, 
Waft    a    girl's   sweetness   'round   his    firm    set 

mouth. 

"Or,  should  he  deem  wrong  threats  the  public 

weal, 
Lo,  the  whole .  man  seems  girt  with  flashing 

steel ; 
His  glance  a  sword  thrust  and  his  words  of  ire, 

o 

Like   thunder   tones   from   some   old    prophet's 

lyre. 

Or  by  the  hearthstone,  when  the  day  is  done, 
Mark  swiftly  lanced  a  sudden  shaft  of  fun  ; 
The  short  quick  laugh,  the  smartly  smitten  knees, 
Are  all  sure  tokens  of  a  mind  at  ease. 

"  God's  innocent  pensioners  in  the  woodland  dim, 
The  fields,  the  pastures  know  and  trust  in  him, 
And  in  their  love,  his  lonely  heart  is  blest, 
Our  pure  hale-minded  Cowper  of  the  West." 

Quaker  as   he  was,    and   gentle   and 


42      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

graceful  as  were  his  early  poems,  "  his 
martial  lyrics  had  something  of  the 
energy  of  a  primitive  bard  urging  on 
the  hosts  to  battle.'* 

The  "  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man 
became  a  fiery  partisan,"  and  held  his 
intrepid  way  against  the  public  frown,— 

"  The  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  fierce  mob's  hounding  down." 

His  poetry  was  as  genuine,  as  his 
wrath  was  terrific,  and  many  a  political 
time-server,  who  was  proof  against  Gar 
rison's  hottest  denunciations,  and  Phil- 
lips's  most  stinging  invectives,  quailed 
.before  Whittier's  smiting  rhymes.  Yet 
strange  to  say,  the  opprobium  and  abuse 
which  covered  them  did  not  fall  on  him. 
The  reason  for  this  may  be  that  in  order 
to  point  a  story,  or  round  a  period,  he 
never  allowed  himself  to  swerve  from 
the  truth  ;  and  the  pitying  scorn  which 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  43 

he  sometimes  used  fell  upon  the  head 
of  the  wrong-doer  from  no  personal  mo 
tive,  but  from  his  intense  hatred  of  injus 
tice  and  wrong.  Such  was  the  poem 
"  Ichabod,"  with  its  burning  denuncia 
tion  and  lofty  contempt,  written  after 
Webster's  /th  of  March  speech  (1850). 

"  So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore! 
glory  from  his  gray  hair  gone 
Forevermore! 


"  Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days  \Qc 

To  his  dead  fame  : 
Walk  backward  with  averted  gaze 
And  hide  the  shame !  " 

But  his  scorn  was  such  as  an  angel 
might  have  used.  His  unfailing  charity 
and  sweetness  of  spirit  were  shown  in  a 
remark  he  made  not  long  after  writing 
the  poem  :  "  I  could  wish  '  Ichabod  ' 


44      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

were  unwritten,  except  that  it  is  a  mat 
ter  of  history." 

His    early    poem,    "The  Pine-Tree," 
is  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet. 

"  Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 

rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on   our 

banners  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles 

round  the  board 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm, 

<  THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  !  ' 

Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom!  set  the  battle 

in  array! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons 

must  do  to-day. 

#     .        #  *  #  * 

"  Where 's  the  Man  for  Massachusetts  ?     Where 's 

the  voice  to  speak  her  free? 
Where 's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her 

mountains  to  the  sea? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse   no   longer?     Sits   she 

dumb  in  her  despair  ? 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence?     Has   she 

none  to  do  and  dare? 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  45 

O  my  God!  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her 

rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's 

tattered  field!" 

In  1840  Mr.  Whittier  first  faced  the 
mob  and  became  familiar  with  personal 
danger,  and  in  his  later  years  he  took 
great  pleasure  in  fighting  over  his 
battles  by  the  evening  fireside.  No  one 
who  had  the  privilege  of  listening  to 
him,  as  he  sat  with  his  chosen  friends  in 
the  quiet  of  a  winter's  evening,  can  ever 
forget  the  charm  of  such  conversations. 
But  if  a  stranger  chanced  to  intrude 
upon  those  delectable  moments,  the 
poet's  voice  was  immediately  silenced. 

In  the  stormy  days,  when  every  Abo 
litionist  was  a  marked  man,  an  impor 
tant  meeting  was  held  in  New  York. 
Among  the  speakers  on  the  platform  sat 
Garrison,  with  his  shining  bald  head,  and 
C.  C.  Burleigh,  whose  ample  locks  fell 


46     PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OP 

down  his  shoulders  in  true  poetic  fash 
ion,  while  above  them  all  towered  the 
massive  head  of  Fred  Douglas,  the  col 
ored  orator.  As  usual,  the  proceedings 
were  greatly  disturbed  by  the  rioters ; 
but  in  a  temporary  lull  which  chanced 
to  occur,  a  high-pitched  voice  was  heard 
crying,  "  Mr.  Chairman,  one  word,  Mr. 
Chairman.  I  have  a  proposition  to 
make  that  will  restore  order."  — 

"  What  is  your  proposition  ?"  quickly 
replied  the  Chairman,  "  let  us  have  it." 

"Let  that  nigger  there  shave  Bur- 
leigh,  and  make  a  wig  for  Garrison,  and 
all  the  difference  will  be  settled." 

Strange  to  say,  when  the  audience 
had  recovered  from  the  burst  of  laugh 
ter,  order  was  restored,  and  the  speakers 
proceeded  without  interruption. 

Mr.  Whittier,  being  a  friend  of  Garri 
son,  Douglas,  and  Burleigh,  took  great 
delight  in  telling  this  story. 


JOHN  G.   WHIT  TIER.  47 

Mr.  Whittier  was  a  keen  observer  of 
all  public  affairs,  and  the  trusted  adviser 
of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  the 
old  Bay  State.  He  seemed  to  have  pro 
phetic  vision,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
sagacious  counsellors  in  the  State,  which 
was  then  famous  for  its  able  men.  How 
clear  and  far-seeing  was  his  judgment 
may  be  seen  from  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  first  to  suggest  to  our  great  states 
man,  Charles  Sumner,  that  he  should 
allow  his  name  to  be  used  in  the  choice 
for  senator,  and  with  him,  as  the  years 
went  by,  Mr.  Sumner  often  discussed 
the  important  issues  before  the  country. 
He  followed,  with  keen  interest  and  dis 
criminating  insight,  the  action  of  Con 
gress,  and  no  smallest  question  escaped 
his  close  investigation.  His  instinct 
was  unerring,  and  his  political  friends 
constantly  sought  his  advice  and  counsel. 

When  the  terrible  years  of  the  war 


4§      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

came,  and  the  days  were  dark  and  the 
hearts  of  the  bravest  grew  faint  with 
weary  waiting,  he,  who  had  so  often  re 
minded  the  people  that  no  compromise 
with  sin  could  be  tolerated,  stood  ready 
to  infuse  new  life  into  drooping  souls ; 
and  as  each  crisis  drew  near,  some  poem, 
or  open  letter,  from  Mr.  Whittier  would 
arouse  the  people  from  despair,  and  as 
sure  them  of  triumph  in  the  end ;  and 
when  the  end  came,  in  the  midst  of  the 
universal  rejoicing,  no  voice  rang  out 
more  joyously  than  his,  and  none  was 
more  quick  to  counsel  forgetfulness  of 
the  strife  in  the  new  birth  of  the  nation. 
For  Mr.  Sumner  he  had  great  affec 
tion  and  admiration.  He  wrote,  at  the 
time  the  vote  of  censure  was  passed 
upon  Mr.  Sumner,  "  The  great  and 
general  Court  have  acted  like  fools,  and 
worse,  in  denouncing  Charles  Sumner. 
I  begin  to  hate  parties  and  politics ! 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  49 

"  I  have  sent  to  Hon.  Willard  Phillips, 
our  Representative,  a  draft  of  a  petition 
for  rescinding  the  odious  resolution 
passed  by  the  late  extra  session  in  cen 
sure  of  Senator  Sumner.  I  make  the 
movement  not  merely  for  Sumner's  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  honor  and  good 
name  of  our  dear  old  Commonwealth. 
Sumner's  fame  is  beyond  its  reach,  but 
we  cannot  afford  the  disgrace  in  our 
records.  I  have  not  found  one  intelli 
gent  and  respectable  man  who  approved 
of  that  resolution." 

"I  have  just  received  a  telegram 
announcing  the  death  of  our  dear  and 
noble  friend  Charles  Sumner.  My  heart 
is  too  full  for  words.  In  deepest  sym 
pathy  of  sorrow  I  reach  out  my  hands 
to  thee  and  Governor  Claflin  who  loved 
him  so  well.  He  has  died  as  he  wished, 
at  his  post  of  duty,  and  when  the  heart 


50      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

of  his  beloved  Massachusetts  was  turn 
ing  toward  him  with  more  than  the 
old-time  love  and  reverence.  God's 
peace  be  with  him." 

"  I  have  been  to  see  Jackson's  bust 
of  Sumner.  It  is  very  grand  —  beauti 
ful  as  the  Greek  Apollo  —  full  of  the 
character  of  the  man,  but  still  somewhat 
ideal  —  a  little  glorified.  Thee  knows 
I  am  no  judge  of  graven  images." 

Mr.  Whittier  always  liked  to  tell  the 
story  of  his  own  political  preferment. 
He  said:  "In  1835  and  36  I  had  two 
years'  experience  in  the  Massachusetts 
Legislature,  and  from  that  time  on,  for 
forty  years,  I  have  always  been  sup 
ported  for  that  position,  but  without 
anxiety  to  myself  till  my  one  vote  be 
came  two ;  then  it  was  necessary  to 
look  about." 

Mr.  Whittier  knew  how  he  stood  in 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  51 

the  literary  world  —  none  knew  better. 
It  was  sometimes  said  he  had  less 
culture  than  the  poets  who  contested 
with  him  the  palm  of  popularity,  and 
that  there  is  now  and  then  to  be  found 
an  imperfect  line  among  his  verses.  It 
may  be  so,  but  there  is  never  an 
imperfect  thought ;  and  if  during  the 
forty  years  when  others  were  travelling 
in  foreign  lands,  rich  in  classic  legend 
and  story,  or  working  quietly  in  their 
secluded  libraries  at  home,  Whittier, 
forgetful  of  himself  and  his  fame,  was 
expending  his  energies  in  the  great 
cause  of  human  freedom  —  do  not  his 
own  words  explain  his  high  motive  and 
his  keen  sense  of  moral  responsibility  ? 
Surely 

"  Never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  duty  came." 

He  said,  "my  soul  spoke  out  against 
the  wrong"  :  — 


52       PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

"  Forego  thy  dreams  of  lettered  ease, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

The  rights  of  man  are  more  than  these," 
He  heard  and  answered,  "  Here  am  I." 

"  Beyond  the  poefs  sweet  dream  lives 
The  eternal  epic  of  the  man." 

While  Mr.  Whittier  was  painfully 
conscious  of  any  shortcoming  in  his 
own  efforts,  he  was  naturally  sensitive 
to  criticism.  I  found  him  one  day  in 
my  library  in  an  unusually  sad  and  de 
jected  state  of  mind.  He  stood  before 
the  fire,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him,  looking,  as  it  were,  into  space,  and 
after  a  long  silence  he  said,  with  a  sigh  : 
"  Tennyson  has  written  a  perfect  poem. 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  write  a  perfect 
poem.  Tennyson  is  so  grand." 

There  had  been  at  that  time  an  un 
favorable  criticism  upon  Whittier  in  an 
English  journal.  It  was  sometimes  said 
that  he  was  not  appreciated  in  England, 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  53 

but  in  fact  he  was  well  known  and 
greatly  beloved  and  widely  read  there. 

Canon  Kingsley  said  to  him,  when  he 
came  to  America,  "  Mr.  Whittier,  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  much  we  all  love 
you ;  everything  you  write  is  read  in 
England ;  my  wife  is  never  without  a 
volume  of  your  poems  by  her  side." 

George  MacDonald  sent  him  a  book 
through  the  hands  of  a  friend,  saying, 
"  Take  this  book  from  my  hands  to  Mr. 
Whittier's  hand,  clasped  firmly  as  I  give 
it  to  you,  and  tell  him  how  much  we 
love  him  in  England." 

When  Dom  Pedro,  the  Emperor  of 
Brazil,  was  visiting  Boston,  he  was  in 
vited  one  morning  to  a  private  parlor  to 
meet  some  of  the  men  who  have  made 
this  city  famous  in  the  world  of  letters. 
As  one  after  another  was  presented  to 
him,  he  received  each  one  graciously, 
but  without  enthusiasm.  But  when  Mr. 


54  •    PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 

Whittier's  name  was  announced  his  face 
suddenly  lighted  up,  and,  grasping  the 
poet's  hand,  he  made  a  gesture  as 
though  he  would  embrace  him  ;  but  see 
ing  that  to  be  contrary  to  the  custom  of 
the  Friends,  he  passed  his  arm  through 
that  of  Mr.  Whittier's,  and  drew  him 
gently  to  a  corner  where  he  remained 
with  him,  absorbed  in  conversation, 
until  the  time  came  to  leave.  The 
Emperor,  taking  the  poet's  hand  in  both 
his  own  again,  bade  him  a  reluctant  fare 
well,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but 
still  unsatisfied,  he  was  heard  to  say, 
"  Come  with  me,"  and  they  passed 
slowly  down  the  staircase,  his  arm 
around  Mr.  Whittier. 

A  friend  of  his  had  the  rare  pleasure 
of  spending  some  hours  with  the  vener 
able  William  and  Mary  Howitt  in  Rome, 
and  their  conversation  was  wholly  about 
Mr.  Whittier.  "  Tell  me,"  said  the  gentle, 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  55 

lovely  Mary  Howitt,  "tell  me  every 
word  you  can  recall  that  you  have  heard 
him  say ;  and  tell  him  when  you  see 
him,  how  much  we  love  him  on  this 
side  the  water,  and  how  eagerly  we 
watch  for  every  word  that  comes  from 
his  pen." 

John  Bright  would  stand  with  his 
arm  upon  the  mantel  by  his  own  fire 
side,  and  repeat  page  after  page  of  Mr. 
Whittier's  poems.  He  said  to  an 
American  lady  who  was  visiting  him, 
"  I  would  rather  see  Mr.  Whittier  than 
any  man  in  your  country.  If  I  go  to 
America  I  shall  seek  him  first." 

Our  own  Lowell  said  his  name  was 
"  Sweetly  familiar  to  both  Englands' 
ears." 

Though  Mr.  Whittier's  prevailing 
habit  of  mind  was  one  of  seriousness,  he 
had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and 


56      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

was  famous  among  his  friends  for  his 
quickness  of  repartee.  No  good  story 
ever  failed  to  receive  appreciation  from 
him,  while  'one  in  a  mood  for  jesting 
found  him  always  responsive  ;  but  the 
jester  was  obliged  to  sharpen  his  wits, 
or  he  would  find  himself  the  worse  for 
the  tilt. 

On  his  return  home  one  day,  Mr. 
Whittier  repeated  the  conversation  he 
had  had  with  a  literary  friend  with 
whom  he  had  been  dining.  He  said, 
"  My  friend  was  downcast  and  sad,  and 
I  inquired  what  was  the  matter.  '  Oh/ 
he  said,  '  I  am  getting  old,  and  I  expect 
soon  to  be  called  away  to  an  unknown 
country.  Here  I  am  situated  just  as  I 
wish  to  be.  I  live  on  Beacon  Street,  in 
a  house  that  suits  me;  I  have  just  the 
friends  I  want ;  and  I  do  n't  feel  happy 
about  being  called  away  to  that  other 
country  I  know  nothing  about ;  and  the 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  57 

worst  of  it  is,  I  may  have  to  rub 
against  a  Hottentot  or  a  cannibal,  as 
I  pass  through  the  pearly  gates.  It 
strikes  me  that  the  society  of  heaven 
will  be  rather  promiscuous.' 

"  Do  n't  thee  think  the  Beacon  Street 
folks  will  have  a  good  deal  to  put  up 
with,  when  they  get  to  the  Celestial 
City  ? "  said  Mr,  Whittier. 

Mr.  Whittier  never  spoke  in  public, 
and  so  great  was  his  fear  and  dislike  of 
being  called  out,  that  he  rarely  attended 
any  large  gathering  ;  but  after  Mr.  Sum- 
ner's  death  he  could  not  refuse  to  pay  a 
tribute  of  respect  to  his  old  friend  and 
compeer,  and  he  accepted  an  invitation 
to  be  present  at  a  memorial  service,  to  be 
held  in  a  private  parlor,  upon  condition 
that  he  should  be  allowed  to  remain 
silent.  After  several  addresses  by  other 
friends  of  the  great  statesman,  a  word 


58      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 

from  Mr.  Whittier  was  eagerly  called 
for.  Much  annoyed,  but  without  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  he  arose,  and,  amid 
breathless  silence,  told  the  story  of 
a  Scotch  colonel,  who,  being  interred 
with  military  honors,  had  an  unfriendly 
regiment  detailed  to  fire  a  salute  over 
his  grave,  seeing  which,  an  on-looker 
said,  "  If  the  colonel  could  have  known 
this,  he  would  not  have  died.'*  —  "So  I 
feel,"  said  Mr.  Whittier.  "If  my  friend 
Sumner  could  have  known  that  I  should 
have  been  asked  to  speak  at  his  me 
morial  service,  he  would  not  have  died." 
And  he  resumed  his  seat.  When,  after 
the  meeting,  a  friend  spoke  to  him  of 
the  breathless  silence  which  pervaded  the 
audience,  that  they  might  catch  every 
word,  the  poet  quickly  replied,  "  Do  n't 
thee  think  they  would  have  listened  just 
as  attentively  if  Balaam's  animal  had 
spoken  ?" 


JOHN  G.   WIIITTIER.  59 

He  was  present  at  a  lecture  where 
the  lecturer  closed  by  repeating  a  pas 
sage  from  one  of  Mr.  Whittier's  poems. 
This  was  followed  by  an  enthusiastic 
round  of  applause.  Entirely  uncon 
scious  that  he  had  written  it,  he  clapped 
vigorously  with  the  others,  and  turn 
ing  to  a  strange  gentleman  sitting  by 
his  side,  inquired  if  he  knew  where 
the  quotation  came  from.  "  Yes,"  said 
the  gentleman  ;  "  it  is  from  one  of 
Whittier's  poems."  —  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  the  lecturer  made  it  sound  very  well, 
did  n't  he?" 

One  of  the  governors  of  Massachu 
setts  said  to  Mr.  Whittier,  "  I  have  taken 
my  proclamation  from  King  David  and 
from  you,  Mr.  Whittier."  —  "Well,"  re 
sponded  the  poet,  "  I  do  n't  know  that  I 
have  any  objection  ;  but  how  about  King 
David?  He  might  object  to  being  in 
such  company." 


60      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

Some  one  asked  his  opinion  of  the 
Shakers.  His  reply  was,  "  I  do  n't  know 
anything  about  those  dancing  Dervishes. 
I  do  n't  see  any  sense  in  such  perform 
ances.  I  was  always  ashamed  of  King 
David  for  dancing  before  the  Lord  ; 
and  I  never  blamed  his  wife  for  being 
ashamed  of  him." 

Mr.  Whittier  had  keen  pleasure  in 
talking  with  his  old  neighbors,  about  the 
countryside,  at  the  village  store,  or  lean 
ing  against  his  own  gate-posts.  There 
was  an  old  man  whose  original  remarks 
greatly  interested  him  ;  and  he  repeated 
to  Mr.  Emerson,  one  day,  some  of  the 
quaint  and  wise  sayings  of  his  neigh 
bor.  Said  Mr.  Emerson:  "That  man 
ought  to  read  Plato "  ;  and  he  brought 
out  a  volume,  and  requested  Mr.  Whit- 
tier  to  hand  it  to  him.  This  Mr.  Whittier 
did  on  his  return  to  Amesbury.  His 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  61 

neighbor  kept  the  volume  for  a  while, 
and,  on  handing  it  back,  said,  "  There 
are  some  good  things  in  that  book.  I 
find  this  Mr.  Plato  has  a  good  many  of 
my  idees." 

There  was  an  old  man  in  his  neigh 
borhood,  who  had  spent  his  life  on  a 
little  farm  with  his  wife,  and  his  cow 
and  his  hens ;  at  seventy  years  of  age 
he  and  his  wife  converted  the  farm 
and  the  stock  into  money,  and  started 
to  go  round  the  world.  He,  with  the 
coat  he  had  worn  for  many  years,  un- 
faded  only  where  the  collar  protected  it 
from  the  sun  and  the  storm  ;  and  the 
good  wife  with  the  same  gown  that  had 
been  made  by  the  village  dressmaker 
twenty  years  before,  not  in  the  least 
troubled  that  the  sleeves  were  not  in 
the  latest  fashion,  and  that  the  skirt  did 
not  dip  in  the  back.  They  were  gone 
a  year.  On  their  return,  Mr.  Whittier 


62      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

asked  them  about  their  journey.  They 
had  enjoyed  it,  they  said  ;  though  the 
old  man  thought  things  were  terribly 
out  of  repair  over  there  in  Europe, 
especially  in  Rome,  and  they  did  n't 
understand  much  about  farming. 

An  old  Quaker  friend  visited  Mr. 
Whittier.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and 
when  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  he  was 
shown  to  his  room.  Soon  after,  he  was 
heard  calling  from  the  top  of  the  stairs 
in  an  excited  tone,  "I  think  thee  has 
made  a  mistake,  friend  Whittier ;  I  find 
female  garments  in  my  room/' 

At  which  friend  Whittier  replied, 
"  Thee  'd  better  go  to  bed  ;  the  female 
garments  won't  hurt  thee." 

"  In  the  days  of  witchcraft,"  he  said, 
"I  had  an  ancestor  who  helped  to  kill 
a  witch.  She  and  another  woman  got  a 
lock  of  the  witch's  hair  and  put  it  in  a 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  63 

hot  oven  and  closed  the  oven  door. 
Presently  the  most  dreadful  moans 
came  from  the  oven,  and  repeated 
knocks  and  thumps  against  the  door ; 
but  the  good  dames  stoutly  resisted  the 
attacks  with  poker  and  tongs,  keeping  the 
oven  tightly  closed.  Finally  the  sounds 
ceased,  and  in  due  time  news  came  that 
the  witch  had  died.  This  is  the  only 
connection  I  ever  had  with  witches." 

Mr.  Whittier  had  some  country  neigh 
bors  who  were  Millerites.  One,  a  wo 
man,  in  explaining  their  belief,  told  her 
neighbor  that  the  elect  would  be  caught 
up  on  a  cloud  while  the  earth  was  puri 
fied  by  fire,  then  they  would  descend, 
and  live  on  the  earth,  after  it  had  been 
made  fit  for  their  habitation. 

"Then,"  said  the  unbeliever,  "thee 
will  look  down  and  see  the  fire  consum 
ing  everything  and  everybody  ? " 

"Yes." 


64      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  would  rather 
be  down  here  burning  up  than  to  sit 
up  there  on  a  damp  cloud  and  see  my 
neighbors  burning." 

A  lady  was  one  day  bemoaning  to 
Mr.  Whittier  her  lack  of  means  to  live 
as  she  wished,  and  she  closed  by  saying, 
"  I  fear  I  shall  not  have  money  enough 
left  to  bury  me." 

"  My  friend,"  quickly  replied  Mr. 
Whittier,  "did  thee  ever  know  any  one 
to  stick  by  the  way  (or  lack  of  funds  ? " 

Though  his   own  dress  was  so  plain 

he  was  very  observant  of  the  dress  of 

,    others.     He   went   one   day  to   hear  a 

woman  read  in  public,  and  he  said  on 

j  his  return,  " 's  neck  did  n't  look 

]  just  right.  Can't  thee  fix  it  up  before 
she  reads  again  ?  The  lace  appeared 
to  fall  down  too  much." 

He   was   invited   to   a   gathering    of 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  65 

literary  people,  and  was  asked  by  his 
h  hostess  to  take  out  to  the  dining-room 
a  certain  lady  who  was  sftowily  dressed. 
Her  costume  offended  his  sense  of  pro- 
priety,  and  he  was  very  unhappy  that 
he  had  to  offer  her  his  arm  to  go  into 
the  dining-room,  where  he  dropped  her 
as  soon  as  possible,  saying  to  his 
friend  afterward,  "I  did  n't  care  to 
take  that  woman  on  my  arm  ;  I  think 
we  must  have  cut  a  pretty  figure,  she 
with  her  fantastic  gown,  and  I  with  my 
Quaker  coat." 

He  told  an  amusing  story  of  his 
mother  who  went  by  steamer  with  him 
to  Portland. 

"  My  mother,"  he  said,  "  was  not 
used  to  travelling  by  water,  and  she  had 
a  new  Quaker  bunnit  made  to  go  on 
her  journey,  and  when  we  were  well 
out  to  sea,  she  became  very  uncomforta 
ble,  and  took  off  her  new  bunnit  and 


66      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

placed  it  on  a  chair  beside  her.  Her 
discomfort  increased  and  she  changed 
her  position,  forgetting  where  she  had 
placed  her  new  bunnit,  and  sat  down 
on  it ;  thee  knows  Quaker  bunnits 
won't  bear  sitting  on.  This  was  too 
much  for  the  good  woman  and  she 
said, '  John,  I  want  thee  to  take  me  right 
home/  —  'But,'  said  John,  ( mother,  we 
are  way  out  to  sea,  I  can't  take  thee 
home/  —  '  Can't  thee  get  the  boat  to 
turn  round  —  I  feel  very  sick,  and  my 
new  bunnit  will  never  do  to  wear  to 
friend  Smith's  in  Portland/  — '  No, 
mother,  thee  '11  have  to  make  the  best 
of  it  now/  — '  Oh,  John,  thee  must 
never  take  me  on  the  water  again.  I 
do'no  as  I  shall  live  to  get  home/  ' 

He  was  often  amused  and  sometimes 
annoyed  by  the  foolish  remarks  made 
to  him,  and  he  said  to  me,  "  What  does 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  67 

thee  think  women  make  such  silly 
speeches  to  me  for?  It  makes  me  feel 
like  a  fool.  A  woman  said  to  me  yes 
terday,  '  Mr.  Whittier,  your  smile  is  a 
benediction/  As  I  was  walking  across 
the  floor  at  the  Radical  Club  a  woman 
stopped  me  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor 
among  all  the  folks,  and  said,  '  I  've  long 
wished  to  see  you,  Mr.  Whittier,  to  ask 
what  you  thought  of  the  subjective  and 
the  objective/  Why,  I  thought  the 
woman  was  crazy,  and  I  said,  '  I  do  n't 
know  anything  about  either  of  'em.' ' 

A  young  friend  asked  him  one  day  if 
Mr.  Fields's  story  were  true  about  the 
woman  who  made  her  way  to  his  library 
under  pretence  of  conversing  with  him 
upon  literary  topics.  "  Mr.  Fields  said 
her  conversation  became  very  per 
sonal  and  tender,  and  you  remarked, 
'  I  do  not  understand  thee,  I  do  not  un 
derstand  thee;  thee  had  better  leave  the 


68      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

room/  Was  that  really  true,  Mr.  Whit- 
tier?"  asked  the  young  girl. 

With  a  very  funny  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
he  replied,  "  Does  thee  think,  Mary,  I 
could  treat  a  lady  in  so  ungentlemanly 
a  manner  as  that  ?" 

That  was  the  only  response  Mary 
could  elicit. 

He  took  great  pleasure  in  talking  with 
this  young  girl  about  the  ways  and 
doings  of  young  people.  He  often 
said,  "  Come,  sit  thee  down,  and  tell  me 
about  thy  experiences  since  I  last  saw 
thee,"  to  which  Mary  sometimes  replied, 
"  Mr.  Whittier,  you  often  ask  me  to 
tell  you  about  my  experiences,  I  think 
you  ought  to  tell  me  some  of  yours." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Whittier,  "it  is  n't 
likely,  Mary,  that  one  has  lived  so  long 
as  I  have  in  the  world  without  having 
had  some  experiences,  but  it  is  n't  worth 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  69 

while  for  an  old  man  to  talk  much  about 
them.  Time  was  when  I  had  my  dreams 
and  fancies  —  but  those  days  have  long 
since  passed  —  do  n't  thee  think  I  should 
have  made  a  pretty  good  husband  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "but  I  think  if 
thee  had  wished  to  go  to  Amesbury  on 
a  certain  train  thee  would  have  gone, 
wife  or  no  wife." 

At  which  reply  he  laughed  a  merry 
laugh,  vigorously  smote  his  knee,  and 
said,  "  I  guess  thee  is  about  right,  Mary." 

Shy  as  the  poet  was  he  was  full  of 
grace  and  delicate  tact. 

For  a  young  girl,  in  whose  love  ex- , 
periences  he  was  much  interested,  hej 
wrote  the  following  little  poem  for  her/ 
wedding  day  :  — 


We  give  to  grace  another  home    , 


The  fairest  of  our  flowers, 


70      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 

For  love  itself  must  yield  to  love 
With  stronger  claim  than  ours. 

Go,  with  our  best  hopes  and  our  prayers, 
A  sweet  and  happy  bride  : 
No  path  of  life  can  lead  astray 
Where  love  alone  is  guide. 

Go,  rest  thy  heart  upon  a  heart 
And  life  with  life  ally  : 
That  joy  unshared  is  scarcely  joy 
Who  better  knows  than  I  ? 

With  thanks  for  all  that  thou  hast  been, 
And  trust  for  what  shall  be, 
We  fling  our  blessings,  with  our  shoes, 
For  good  luck  after  thee. 

May  health  and  plenty,  love  and  friends, 
With  God's  peace,  make  alway 
For  thee  and  thine  the  happiest  home 
By  fair  Sandusky's  Bay! 

On  being  asked  for  an  autograph  vol 
ume  of  his  poems,  for  a  fair  which  was 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  71 

being  held  for  some  charitable  purpose, 
he  wrote  on  the  fly  leaf  — 

Not  for  the  doubtful  rhyme  within 

Nor  outside  gold, 

Stranger  or  friend,  I  warn  thee  well, 
Should  this  be  sold  ; 

But  freely  for  the  sake  of  such 

As  homeless  be, 
Give  thrice  its  worth  and  it  shall  prove 

Cheap  unto  thee. 
Amesbury,  I2th  Mo.,  1873. 

In  the  winter  of  1875,  as  some  friends 
at  whose  house  he  had  been  a  welcome 
and  honored  guest,  were  about  sailing 
for  Europe,  he  handed  them  an  enve 
lope  saying,  "  I  thought  thee  might  like 
my  autograph." 

The  contents  were  as  follows  :  — 

"  What  shall  I  say,  dear  friends,  to  whom  I  owe 
The  choicest  blessings,  dropping  from  the  hands 
Of  trustful  love  and  friendship,  as  you  go 
Forth  on  your  journey  to  those  elder  lands, 
By  saint  and  sage  and  bard  and  hero  trod? 


72      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

Scarcely  the  simple  farewell  of  the  Friends 
Sufficeth  :  after  you  my  full  heart  sends 
Such  benediction  as  the  pilgrim  hears 
Where  the  Greek  faith  its  golden  dome  uprears 
From  Crimea's  roses  to  Archangel  snows 
The  fittest  prayer  of  parting :  '  Go  with  God! ' " 

A  friend  of  his  youth,  who  had  spent 
most  of  his  life  on  the  Illinois  prairies, 
visited  the  poet,  and  together  they  re 
called  the  scenes  of  their  childhood,  and 
briefly  recounted  the  course  of  their 
after  life.  Whittier  seemed  much  af 
fected  by  the  allusions  of  his  friend  to 
his  prairie  home,  where  a  wife,  children, 
and  a  grandchild,  Constance,  awaited  his 
return ;  and  on  being  asked  for  his  auto 
graph,  replied,  "  Call  on  the  way  to  the 
cars,  and  I  will  hand  it  to  thee."  The 
friend  called  and  received  the  following  : 

"  The  years  that  since  we  met  have  flown 
Leave,  as  they  found  me,  still  alone, 
Nor  wife  nor  child  nor  grandchild  dear 
Are  mine,  the  heart  of  age  to  cheer. 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  73 

More  favored  thou  ;  with  hair  less  gray 
Than  mine,  canVt  let  thy  fancy  stray 
To  where  thy  little  Consfa'nce  sees 
The  prairie  ripple  in  the  breeze ; 
For  one  like  her  to  lisp  thy  name 
Is  better  than  the  voice  of  fame." 

In  an  attempted  visit  to  Hawthorne 
on  one  occasion,  the  scene  which  ensued 
must  have  been  somewhat  ludicrous. 
Mr.  Whittier  related  it  with  great 
amusement.  He  said,  "Thee  knows  I 
am  not  skilled  in  visits  and  small  talk, 
but  I  wanted  to  make  a  friendly  call 
on  Hawthorne,  and  one  morning  —  it 
chanced  to  be  an  ill-fated  morning  for 
this  purpose  —  I  sallied  forth,  and  on 
reaching  the  house  was  ushered  into  a 
lugubrious-looking  room  where  Haw 
thorne  met  me,  evidently  in  a  lugubri 
ous  state  of  mind. 

"  In  rather  a  sepulchral  tone  of  voice 
he  bade  me  good-morning,  and  asked  me 


74      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

to  be  seated  opposite  him,  and  we  looked 
at  each  other  and  remarked  upon  the 
weather ;  then  came  an  appalling  silence 
and  the  cold  chills  crept  down  my  back, 
and  after  a  moment  or  two  I  got  up  and 
said,  '  I  think  I  will  take  a  short  walk/ 
I  took  my  walk  and  returned  to  bid  him 
good-morning,  much  to  my  relief,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  to  his." 

In  his  last  talk  with  Bishop  Brooks, 
the  two  fell  into  a  most  cheerful  conver 
sation  about  the  hopeful  condition  of  the 
world.  They  were  both  full  of  hope  and 
courage,  and  their  hearty  laughter  rang 
through  the  house  as  they  discussed  the 
various  questions  that  were  in  the  air, 
and  both  agreed  that  they  would  like  to 
live  ah  hundred  years  to  see  the  out 
come  of  it  all. 

One  day  I  invited  some  theological 
students  from  a  school  near  by,  wishing 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  75 

to  give  them  the  privilege  of  at  least 
looking  into  the  face  of  the  poet  beloved, 
but  much  doubting  whether  he  would 
allow  them  to  hear  his  voice.  Fortu 
nately  the  spirit  stirred  within  him  at 
sight  of  these  embryo  ministers  who 
were  soon  to  go  out  into  the  world  to 
teach  the  people,  and  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  taught  them  such  words  of 
saintly  wisdom  as  they  had  seldom 
heard.  To  this  day  they  will  bear 
testimony  to  the  value  of  that  golden 
hour,  when,  as  from  some  old  prophet, 
whose  voice  they  had  never  heard,  and 
would  never  hear  again,  they  drank  in 
the  words  that  flowed  from  his  lips 
when  he  taught  them  that  life  and  love 
were  so  much  more  than  any  creeds  of 
man's  devising. 

We  thought  it  might  be  pleasant  to 
him  to  meet  his  old  anti-slavery  associ- 


76      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

ates,  those  with  whom  he  labored  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Abolition  warfare,  and 
we  invited  all  the  "old  war-horses"  in 
the  vicinity  to  meet  him  on  a  certain 
afternoon.  The  guests  were  all  between 
seventy  and  ninety  years  of  age  and  he 
said,  "  I  guess  thee  never  saw  such  a 
lot  of  old  cronies  together  before. 

There  is  B ,  thee  must  n't  forget 

him,  and  there  is ,  he  was  a  great 

fighter,  he  must  be  asked.  There  's  so 
and  so,  he  is  a  good  deal  of  a  crank,  but 
he  must  n't  be  left  out."  It  was  delight 
ful  to  see  him  with  his  old  friends,  with 
whom  he  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
in  the  great  struggle,  and  hear  them 
recount  the  stirring  events  of  the 
times  that  tried  men's  souls.  He  said, 
"  Do  n't  thee  think  we  are  pretty  cheerful 
martyrs  ?  " 

When   the   excitement   of    the   hour 
was    at    its    height   all    tongues    were 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  77 

silenced  by  the  voice  of  a  woman  sing 
ing  "John  Brown's  body,"  all  eyes 
were  turned  toward  the' piano  where  the 
singer  was  seated  playing  her  own 
accompaniment.  She  was  one  of  the 
"unfortunate  race,"  and  as  her  thrilling 
tones,  tremulous  with  emotion,  floated 
through  the  rooms,  every  voice  caught 
up  the  song,  — those  who  had  a  voice  to 
sing,  and  those  who  sang  with  their  souls, 
swelled  the  grand  chorus,  and  at  the 
conclusion  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in 
the  room. 

"Who  is  that  woman  with  the  won 
derful  voice  ? "  asked  one  of  the  guests. 

"She  was  a  slave" — was  the  reply. 

Mr.  Whittier  listened  with  bowed 
head,  his  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  and 
his  flushed  cheeks  showing  the  deepest 
emotion. 

During  the  afternoon,  in  the  midst  of 
the  festivities,  for  it  was  really  quite  a 


78      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 

festive  company,  notwithstanding  some 
of  the  guests  were  fourscore  and  ten, 
an  old  man  covered  with  the  dust  of 
travel,  and  bowed  with  the  weight  of 
years,  walked  into  their  midst  and  said, 
"I  am  a  stranger;  I  have  heard  since  I 
arrived  in  this  city  that  John  G.  Whit- 
tier  was  in  this  house  ;  I  have  travelled 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  all  the  way 
from  York  State,  to  see  him." 

The  old  man  was  courteously  received, 
and  was  asked  to  take  a  seat.  Mr.  Whit- 
tier  was  pointed  out  to  him,  and  he  sought 
a  position  where  he  could  keep  his  eye 
on  the  object  of  his  search  every  mo 
ment.  Towards  the  close  of  the  after 
noon,  as  he  arose  to  take  his  departure, 
having  scarcely  spoken  from  the  time 
he  entered  the  room,  he  said,  "  I  have 
journeyed  a  long  distance  to  see  John 
G.  Whittier.  I  have  seen  him  and  I 
have  seen  much  more  than  I  expected. 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  79 

I  should  be  happy  and  ready  to  go  home 
if  I  could  have  his  autograph." 

Mr.  Whittier  ran  upstairs  like  an  an 
telope,  excited  by  the  companionship  of 
his  old  friends,  wrote  his  name  and 
brought  it  to  the  old  man,  who  took  it 
and  scanning  it  with  wondering  eyes, 
turned  to  the  hostess  as  if  the  favor 
were  too  great  for  him,  and  said,  "  Do 
you  really  think  he  wrote  that  ?  "  Upon 
being  assured  the  poet  really  wrote  it 
he  departed  on  his  homeward  way  en 
tirely  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Child  was  one  of  the  guests. 
After  the  company  had  left,  Mr.  Whit- 
tier  said,  "  Liddy  had  something  new  on 
her  bunnit.  She  has  worn  that  bunnit 
for  ten  years,  but  she  had  some  new 
fixin'  on  it  to-day.  What  does  thee 
think  it  was  ?  What  does  thee  think 
she  carries  in  that  bag  she  always  keeps 
so  close  to  her  ?  I  have  never  seen  her 


80      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

without  it  by  her  side,  hugging  it  as  if 
it  contained  some  precious  treasure." 

He  often  remarked  that  Mrs.  Child 
was  ostracized  in  the  early  days  on  ac 
count  of  her  anti-slavery  principles.  "  No 
woman  in  this  country,"  said  he,  <lhas 
sacrificed  so  much  for  principle  as  Mrs. 
Child.  She  gave  promise  in  early  life  of 
great  literary  ability,  but  when  she 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  Abolitionists 
she  found  no  market  for  her  books  and 
essays,  and  her  praises  were  suddenly 
silenced." 

Mrs.  Child  retired  early  from  the 
world,  and  she  was  as  shy  and  retiring 
as  Mr.  Whittier.  It  was  hard  to  induce 
her  to  leave  the  privacy  of  her  own 
home.  She  was  invited  one  day  to  the 
house  where  Mr.  Whittier  was  being 
entertained,  with  the  promise  that  no 
one  else  should  be  present,  if  she  would 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  81 

come  and  spend  the  day  with  her  old 
friend ;  but  meeting  a  mutual  friend  of 
theirs,  one  who  had  labored  and  fought 
with  them  both  through  all  the  years  of 
the  anti-slavery  struggle,  their  hostess 
ventured  to  ask  him  to  join  the  com 
pany.  Before  the  day  came,  the  friend, 
unfortunately,  met  Mrs.  Child,  and  ex 
pressed  regret  that  he  should  not  be 
able  to  meet  her  on  the  following  day, 
as  he  greatly  desired  to  do.  Mrs.  Child 
immediately  wrote  a  characteristic  note 
saying,  "The  cat  is  out  of  the  bag. 
When  Quakers  and  Methodists  put  their 
heads  together  to  deceive  the  very  elect 
—  I  do  n't  know  what  the  world  is  com 
ing  to.  Are  there  any  more  cats  in  that 
bag?" 

Mr.  Whittier's  letters  were  not  liter 
ary  productions,  looking  to  his  biogra 
pher  ;  but,  though  often  containing  brief 


82       PERSONAL    RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

allusions  to  State  or  national  affairs, 
they  were  commonly  personal  messages, 
instinct  with  the  feeling  of  the  moment, 
describing  his  own  condition  of  health, 
and  expressing  interest  in,  or  affection 
for,  the  one  to  whom  he  wrote.  This 
native  shyness  and  modesty  led  him  to 
speak  always  with  gratitude,  and  often 
with  surprise,  of  the  attentions  that  were 
showered  upon  him. 

His  letters  were  only  second  in  inter 
est  to  his  visits  ;  they  breathed  the 
same  spirit  of  modest  reserve  and  affec 
tionate  interest  that  were  prominent  in 
his  conversation.  He  wrote  :  — 

"  I  will  tell  thee  now  what  I  could 
not  say  to  thee  at  thy  house,  that  I  en 
joyed  every  moment  of  my  long  visit. 
Of  the  special  kindness  with  which  I 
was  received  into  thy  household  circle, 
I  can  only  say  that  I  wish  that  I  de 
served  it." 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  S3 

"  And  now  Emerson  has  passed  on  ! 
How  the  great  and  good  are  leaving  us. 
There  is  nothing  now  for  us  but  to  love 
God,  and  good  men,  and  one  another 
more." 

In  reply  to  an  invitation  to  visit  Oak 
Bluff,  at  a  time  when  General  Grant  was 
to  be  there,  he  says,  "What  with  the 
camp  meetings  and  General  Grant,  I 
really  do  n't  dare  to  undertake  it.  I 
do  n't  want  to  see  camp  meetings,  and  I 
do  n't  want  to  run  after  General  Grant. 
There  will  be  a  grand  row  on  the  Island, 
and  a  Quaker  would  be  miserably  out  of 
place." 

"  I  was  in  Boston  last  week,  and 
stopped  at  the  Marlboro,  but  I  am 
afraid  my  pleasant  sojourn  in  Mt. 
Vernon  Street  has  made  me  a  little 
fastidious  as  to  my  lodgings.  I  passed 
by  thy  house  as  Ossian  passed  by  the 


84       PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

walls  of  Balclutha,  and  found  them  deso 
late.  It  would  have  been  so  pleasant, 
just  to  step  in  and  sit  by  thy  cheerful 
hearth." 

Speaking  of  a  politician  of  whom  he 
did  not  approve  :  "  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  he  were  willing  to  sell  out.  He  had 
not  much  character  to  lose,  and  what 
little  he  had  was  hardly  worth  the 
trouble  of  keeping." 

"  I  am  made  happy  by  thy  note,  in 
viting  me  to  thy  pleasant  home,  for  it 
assures  me  that  I  am  not  an  unwelcome 
guest ;  and  yet  I  sometimes  wonder  at 
the  kindness  which  throws  open  such 
homes  to  me.  I  do  n't  think  I  deserve 
it,  but  I  am  very  glad  and  thankful 
nevertheless." 

"  They  do  n't  break  roads  in  Danvers. 
It  is  a  marvellously  white  world  that  I 


^ V 


JOHN  C.   WHITTIER.  85 

look  out  upon.  The  sunsets  are  superb, 
and  the  moonlight  photographs  of  trees 
on  the  lawn  are  very  beautiful.  Noth 
ing  can  be  finer  than  the  level  sun  at 
setting  streaming  through  the  western 
pines,  and  the  violet-tinted  hills  on  the 
horizon,  in  contrast  with  the  golden  sky 
above,  and  the  white  snow  below  them. 
But,  after  all,  I  think  Boston,  with  such 
a  southern  exposure  and  cheerful  out 
look  as  thee  have  in  Mt.  Vernon  Street, 
is  more  satisfactory  in  winter.  So  I 
hope  to  look  in  upon  thee  soon." 

"OCTOBER,  1880.  —  Was  there  ever 
such  an  October  ?  Such  color,  such 
late  bloom  (or  blaze)  of  flowers,  such  a 
heavenly  atmosphere  ! " 

"Take  sin  out  of  this  world,  and  it 
would  be  good  enough  for  me." 

"  I  have  heard  my  friend  may  go  to 
Washington,  and  I  should  go  for  it  but 


86      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

for  one  thing,  —  thee  would  shut  thy 
pleasant  home  in  Mt.  Vernon  Street,  — 
what  then  should  I  do  ? " 

"  I  suppose  Butler  is  destined  to  be 
thy  colleague ;  and  if  he  wants  to  carry 
his  point  with  thee,  he  will  take  thee  on 
thy  weak  side  of  Methodism,  as  he  did 
in  the  case  of  the  young  Christian  sol 
dier  of  the  Custom  House." 

"As,  with  the  years,  the  circle  of 
my  limitations  narrows  about  me,  I  am 
obliged  to  give  up  a  great  many  things ; 
but  my  love  and  regard  for  my  friends 
is  none  the  less  strong,  that  I  cannot 
see  them  as  frequently  as  I  could 
wish." 

"  I  never  saw  the  orchard  so  beautiful 
as  now ;  and  my  heart  is  full  of  thank 
fulness  that  I  am  spared  to  enjoy  the 
wonderful  beauty." 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  87 

To  some  friends  who  were  travelling 
abroad  he  wrote  :  — 

"AMESBURY,  6th  Mo.,  7,  1875.  —  I 
wish  I  could  have  been  with  thee  in 
Florence,  and  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  have  been  with  Governor  Claflin 
when  he  visited  Kossuth. 

"Thee  must  now,  I  think,  be  in  Eng 
land  amidst  its  historic  towers  and  its 
eye-satisfying  greenness.  Thee  will  see 
Wordsworth's  lakes  and  mountains,  and 
thee  will  go  to  Scotland,  and  walk  the 
paths  worn  by  the  feet  of  Burns  and 
Scott,  and  thee  will  have  a  good  time  of 
it,  and  all  thy  friends  will  be  glad  for 
thy  sake.  I  am  going  to  send  thee  the 
likeness  of  an  old  Quaker  friend  of 
thine  ;  it  is  all  I  have  to  send.  Thy 
assured  friend,  J.  G.  W." 

"  JUNE.  —  Summer  is  here  at  last,  and 
our  bleak  and  hard  New  England  lovely 


88      PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

with  the  sober,  persistent  beauty  which 
becomes  her.  I  am  glad  the  dreadful 
east  winds  are  getting  their  icy  wings 
melted,  as  I  have  suffered  greatly  from 
them." 

"AMESBURY,  7th  Mo.,  1881. — Miss 
Freeman's  speech  was  eloquent  and 
wise  —  the  best  thing  in  the  Institute. 
Perhaps  even  Francis  Parkman  might 
think  she  could  be  safely  trusted  to 
vote." 

After  writing  a  pleasant  letter,  full  of 
sweet  expressions  of  friendship,  he  says, 
"  I  look  back  with  pleasure  to  my 
somewhat  protracted  visit  —  a  pleasure 
not  unmingled  with  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  it  is  passed  —  a  memory  and  not 
an  anticipation.  I  miss  the  kind  faces 
at  thy  breakfast  table,  and  I  saw  by  the 
newspaper  that  I  was  visiting  '  The  Old 
Elms/  and  from  my  heart  I  wished  the 


JOHN  G.    WHITTIER.  89 

paper  told  the  truth.  The  papers  have 
made  me  ubiquitous  this  summer.  I 
have  been  at  two  or  three  places  at  the 
same  time." 

"OAK  KNOLL,  loth  Mo.,  15,  1880.- 
Dear  friend  :  —  All's  well !  We  can  see 
light  now  and  are  out  of  the  Maine  woods. 
I  must  reach  out  and  shake  hands  with 
thee  over  the  victories  of  Ohio  and  In 
diana.  They  are  so  decisive  that  they 
have  settled  the  presidential  question, 
and  I  am  very  thankful.  Of  course, 
I  take  it  for  granted  the  Republicans 
will  not  relax  their  efforts  ;  New  York 
and  New  Jersey  must  be  had,  and  I 
think  we  can  have  them  by  hard  work. 

"  How  comfortable  it  is  to  have  Blank 
out  of  our  way  and  bottled  up  in  the 
Democracy." 

"  I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  Mohini,  the 
young  Brahmin.  He  has  a  beautiful 


90      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

face.  It  seems  like  a  spirit's.  I  hear  he 
told  some  of  his  agnostic  hearers  that 
they  could  have  no  guide  and  master 
better  than  Jesus  Christ,  and  some  of 
them,  I  hear,  have  bought  a  Bible." 

One  has  said  —  I  would  rather  give  a 
man  or  a  woman  on  the  verge  of  a  great 
moral  lapse  a  marked  copy  of  Whittier, 
than  any  other  book  in  our  language. 
Apropos  of  this,  not  long  since  a  deli 
cate,  high-strung  girl  in  college,  over 
wrought  with  the  strain  of  examinations 
and  the  difficulties  of  her  new  life,  went 
to  the  president,  and  said,  "It  is  of  no 
use,  I  cannot  go  on,  my  life  is  a  failure  ; 
I  must  leave  college  and  go  home." 

The  tactful  president  replied,  "  Go  to 
the  library  and  take  Whittier's  poems, 
sit  down  by  your  window  and  read  'The 
Grave  by  the  Lake,'  then  come  and  I 
will  talk  with  you." 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  91 

The  young  girl  came  back  in  an  hour 
with  a  changed  countenance.  She  said, 
"  I  will  overcome  the  obstacles,  I  will  go 
on  with  my  college  course.  I  believe, 
after  reading  Whittier,  that  life  is  worth 
the  effort." 

„.-*- 

In  one  of  our  prisons  there  was  a 
woman  who  seemed  utterly  callous  to 
every  good  influence.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  very  spirits  of  the  evil  world  had 
taken  possession  of  her,  and  those  about 
her  had  apparently  no  influence  over 
her.  One  day,  after  a  paroxysm  of 
temper,  when  she  was  more  like  a  wild 
animal  than  a  human  being,  the  super 
intendent  handed  her  a  volume  of 
Whittier's  poems,  and  asked  her  to  sit 
quietly  down  and  read  "  The  Eternal 
Goodness."  Returning,  after  a  half  hour, 
the  superintendent  found  the  poor,  half- 
crazed  creature  still  reading,  her  wild 


92      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

eyes  softened  with  tears,  and  she  said  in 
subdued  tones,  "That  is  beautiful  read 
ing,  but  is  it  true  what  it  says  ?  Does 
God  love  me  ?  "  Often  afterward  she  was 
found  poring  over  the  book,  and  her  im 
provement  dated  from  that  hour. 

«  Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!  " 

An  eminent  author  once  said,  "  I 
would  crawl  on  my  hands  and  knees  till 
I  sank,  if  I  could  write  a  book  that  the 
plain  people  would  read  and  love."  This 
Whittier  has  done. 

If  the  worth  of  a  life  may  be  esti 
mated  by  the  number  of  hearts  com 
forted,  the  number  of  lives  uplifted  and 
inspired,  Mr.  Whittier's  measure  will 


N  C.   WHITTIER.  93 


exceed  that  of  most  men  of  this  or  any 
other  century.  "  He  has  given  us  the 
poetry  of  human  brotherhood  and  hu 
man  purity.  He  has  given  us  a  Christ- 
like  example.  He  has  sung  to  us  of 
faith  in  God  and  immortality.  " 

The  beautiful  life  finished  its  earthly 
course  on  a  perfect  summer's  morning, 
and  he  entered  the  life  for  which  he 
longed.  His  last  words  were  charac 
teristic.  He  was  breathing  out  his  life  ; 
his  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  friends 
stood  around  the  bed  about  which  had 
clustered  so  much  loving  interest,  wait 
ing  and  watching  for  the  last  look,  or  the 
last  word,  when  he  opened  those  eyes 
which  had  often  seemed  to  look  into 
the  mysteries  of  eternity,  and  said  with 
labored  breath  :  "  My  —  love  —  to  —  the 
-world/' 

This  was  the  last  message  from  the 
great  heart  that  had  served  the  world 


94      PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF 

so  faithfully,  and  to  whom,  if  love  is  the 
chief  charm  of  heaven,  the  circumstance 
of  death  will  make  little  difference. 

No  church  was  large  enough  to  con 
tain  the  friends  who  came  together  on 
the  day  of  his  burial.  They  gathered 
in  his  own  garden  under  the  trees  he 
loved ;  and  through  the  quivering  leaves 
the  sunshine  glimmered,  and  the  soft 
breeze  sighed,  as  they  paid  their  last 
tribute  of  respect  and  affection  to  him 
who  lay,  almost  buried  in  flowers,  while 
the  waiting  thousands  passed  the  bier  to 
look  upon  his  transfigured  face. 

"  And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 

And  so  the  west  winds  play, 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart  I  open  to  the 

day." 

Amidst  silence  broken  only  by  sobs, 
a  dear  Quaker  friend,  whose  serene  and 
spiritual  appearance  was  in  accord  with 


JOHN  G.   WHITTIER.  95 

the  solemn  scene,  arose,  and  in  a  calm, 
sweet  voice  repeated  one  of  his  last 
songs : — 

"  No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold  — 

***** 
Some  humble  door  among  thy  many  mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving 

cease, 

And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green  expan 
sions 

The  river  of  thy  peace. 
There,  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing, 

I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song, 
And  find  at  last,  beneath  thy  trees  of  healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long.1' 


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